


tell me tell me you'll meet me (will you meet me halfway)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Car Sex, Caught in the Rain, F/M, Tumblr Prompts, because that scene gives me feelings, hello have you seen the bit in Thor where Phil gets drenched in the rain tho, the feelings are: take it off phil coulson, whisky and great decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:43:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5122025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What are you doing," Daisy hisses, pressing water out of her hair with the clean towel the bartender had passed her, and Coulson looks up from where he's settled at a corner table. </p>
<p>"I'm having a drink," he says, as if it's obvious. "We're having a drink. There's nothing else we can do, except walk back to the car, and honestly, I'd rather get warm and get drunk before we go back out there. Maybe the rain will let up."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Daisy and Coulson get caught in the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me tell me you'll meet me (will you meet me halfway)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Persiflage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/gifts).



> Persiflage gave me a tumblr prompt: "kissing in the rain". It was a great prompt.

She's not- she's not  _running away_ , okay. She's got a mission. It just happens to be a solo mission, and maybe she didn't tell the team where she was going (and _yes_ ,  _fine_ , she took one of the SUVs) but she's only leaving for the day. She just wants to see him. She just wants to make sure he's okay.

Her mission does not go as planned. She doesn't try to talk Lincoln into coming home with her, but he tries to talk her into running away with him, and things get heated. Lincoln's angry and afraid and she can tell he thinks she's making bad decisions. He's making bad decisions. Maybe they both are.

"Daisy," he says, urgent and quiet even though they're the only people for miles around, "you can't  _trust_ them, you can't trust SHIELD. They're working with the people who're  _hunting_ us. Your boss sold me out, Daisy, how soon until he does the same to you?"

_I had to make a choice_ , Daisy hears Coulson say, and knows she can never tell Lincoln why she knows Coulson won't do the same to her. "That's not-" she says, instead, falters, presses her fingers to Lincoln's wrist. He looks down at her, raises his hand to cup her cheek.

"Please," he asks again. "Let's just disappear, Daisy, we could drive down through Mexico, go find a beach in Cancún, isn't that better than what we have here?" No, it's not, it's  _not_ , Daisy has responsibilities here, Daisy has  _people_ here, and she cares for Lincoln but she cares about everything else so much more.

"I'm sorry," she says, and Lincoln stares at her for a moment, his expression hardening.

"I'm sorry too," he says, "Daisy, I really am," and then sparks electricity against her cheek, sends her reeling, and when she pulls herself to her feet, he's gone and so is her car.

"Okay," she sighs, "that could have gone better than it did." Her comms are dead from the power surge, and she's miles from the nearest town, but she's learning, slowly. She pulls her cellphone from her back pocket, unzips the Faraday cage pouch she'd tucked it into. She'd intended it to block Coulson from tracking her phone; turns out it's saved it from being fried by static, too. 

She really doesn't want to call Coulson. She could call Mack, she guesses, or Bobbi. Either of them would probably come pick her up no questions asked.

Her phone rings, saving her the decision.  _Coulson_.

"Hi," she says lightly. "Did you miss me?"

"Are you okay?" Coulson asks, his voice tight, and she doesn't even know how he heard it in her words. Maybe he was watching the whole thing via satellite. Maybe she's just easy to read.

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, Phil, I'm fine, but- can you come pick me up?"

"I'll be right there," he says, ends the call, and as Daisy breathes out, heaves a sigh, it begins to rain.

"Great," she mutters, "great, that's just great," and pulls up the hood of her parka, finds what shelter she can under the nearest tree.

 

To Coulson's credit, when he pulls up in another one of their unmarked black SUVs, he doesn't say a word to tell her off. He just watches, silently, as she gets in, then reaches out and turns the heater up. Daisy wipes her face with her sleeve, grimaces, because really at this point she's just smearing water around. 

"Not in Lola?" she asks, trying to break the silence, and Coulson smirks a little.

"It's raining," he says, as if it's obvious. "I'm not taking her out in that."

"Right," Daisy agrees. "Right."

"Plus," Coulson says, glances over at her eloquently. "Right now you'd ruin the upholstery with how wet you are." Daisy chokes a little, and Coulson seems to realize the innuendo, flushes red, focuses hard on his hands gripping the steering wheel.

"Coulson," Daisy says quietly, pulling her feet up onto the seat, hugging her knees. "Aren't you going to say something about how reckless I was?"

"I don't think you need to hear it," Coulson replies. "You should have told someone what you were doing, where you were going. We both know that." There's a long pause, and Daisy fiddles with her cuff, pushes damp hair off her face.

"Thanks for coming to get me," she tells him. "Sorry I got a SHIELD car stolen."  _Please don't try and get it back_ , she thinks and doesn't say.

"It's fine," Coulson says. "Daisy, it's fine," and the thing is, she believes him.

"You're a little more formal than I'm used to seeing you these days," she says after a moment, reaches out and touches the sleeve of his jacket. "What's with the suit, Phil?"

"I was in a meeting. With Ros- Ms Price. And her superiors. I didn't have time to change."

"Wait, seriously? That sounds like an important meeting, Coulson, if you were getting up the food chain. Aren't her superiors, like, the  _White House_?"

"Yeah," Coulson agrees, his eyes on the road. There's a rumble of thunder in the distance, and the rain gets heavier.

"And you, what, had some kind of alert on your phone to tell you as soon as mine came on the grid again? You interrupted a meeting with the ATCU and the  _White House_ to call me?"

"Yeah," Coulson agrees again, and it's only because Daisy's staring at him that she catches the twitch of his jaw.

"Oh," she says after a moment. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Coulson says, and Daisy hears Andrew say, _desperate._

 

The rain's really coming down hard, with thunder and lightning to match, and it's nice, Daisy thinks, in the car with the heater on and the windows steamed up and the radio going softly. She's got her feet up on the dash, watching the road go by, and she's not really sorry she drove so far out into the countryside, not when it means a drive back to base with Coulson.

There's more thunder, and Coulson flicks the windscreen wipers up a gear. "Some storm," he says as the radio crackles with static, and Daisy nods. She's really, really glad she's not out in this right now, she has to admit. Then the engine makes a sudden, terrible noise, and Coulson swerves, swears, swerves again. The tires slide on rain-slick gravel, and Daisy thinks briefly, are they going to crash? They're not, apparently, but the SUV comes to a sad, crunching halt, the engine gently smoking, and oh, she really jinxed this, didn't she.

"Did we just..." she says, looking sideways at him, and Coulson sighs.

"Yeah, I think we just broke down. Let me take a look under the hood, maybe it's fixable." He opens his door, steps out into the rain with a resigned expression, lifts the hood and peers into the engine. Daisy checks her phone. No signal. Maybe electrical interference from the lightning. Coulson opens the drivers door again, gets back in. He's even wetter than she was when he picked her up, raindrops soaking in dark patches through the fine wool of his suit jacket.

"Engine's a bust," he says, "we can probably stay put and call for help."

"My phone's got no signal," Daisy tells him, "how about you?"

"No signal either. I'd say the storm knocked out a cell tower, took down the network. Or maybe we're just so far out there's no coverage."

"Awesome," Daisy says. "Awesome." Coulson reaches over, grabs a map from the glove box, considers it thoughtfully for a few minutes.

"I think there's a small town a couple of miles ahead," he says. "They might have a payphone we can use."

"Sure," Daisy agrees without enthusiasm, zips up her jacket and pulls up the hood. "Two miles. That's fine."

The rain is cold and heavy and deeply unpleasant, and after half an hour Daisy feels like even her underwear is wet through. Coulson looks stoic but just as miserable, droplets sliding down his face, dripping off his chin. She steals glances at him, in the fading light of early evening, has a sudden urge to run her fingers down the slick wetness of his cheek.

When they reach the town he'd seen on the map, it's really not much more than a corner store, closed up for the day, and a bar that she'd say had seen better days but has maybe always been seedy even in its best days. They push the door open, blink at the sudden light and warmth, and Coulson goes to ask the bartender if there's a payphone or a phone they can borrow.

"Sorry," the bartender says, giving them a sympathetic look, "phone lines are down. That storm's really something, huh. You folks get caught in it?"

"Yeah," Coulson says, "our car broke down, we were hoping to call a tow."

"Afraid I can't help you. You'll have to wait it out, cell network should be back up by morning, it usually is. It's a bit touch-and-go round here. You want a drink? Or a towel?"

"Yeah," Coulson says, and Daisy sees him sigh, his shoulders rise and then lower as if he's consciously relaxing. "Yeah, give me a scotch, that sounds good. Actually, can you just make it the bottle. And two glasses."

"What are you  _doing_ ," Daisy hisses, pressing water out of her hair with the clean towel the bartender had passed her, and Coulson looks up from where he's settled at a corner table. 

"I'm having a drink," he says, as if it's obvious. " _We're_ having a drink. There's nothing else we can do, except walk back to the car, and honestly, I'd rather get warm and get drunk before we go back out there. Maybe the rain will let up."

"Right," Daisy says, because when he puts it like that, it  _is_ obvious. "Okay. Yeah, okay, give me a drink." Coulson pours her a generous glass, slides it across the table. The whisky is smoky and warm and strong, and Daisy feels herself relax into it, the tension slipping away. She passes Coulson the towel, and he gives her a wry smile, wipes off his face, shucks off his wet jacket. His white shirt is soaked too, the fabric wetly translucent, and Daisy sips her whisky, tries not to look at how it's clinging to his shoulders, his arms, his chest. Droplets of rain are clinging to his skin above his open collar, sliding slowly down his neck into the fabric and the dip of his clavicle. She bites her lip, realizes she's staring.

"Sorry about your suit," she says, raises her eyes to his face, and Coulson looks amused, as if there's a joke she's not in on.

"It's fine. I have other suits."

"Yeah, but this one was nice. All your suits are nice."

"You miss them?"

"Your jeans are nice too," Daisy says without thinking, and Coulson's smirking harder now. She should just- she should just stop talking, she thinks, because apparently this whisky is going straight to her head.

 

They drink all the scotch. Maybe that's a bad choice, Daisy thinks muzzily, but she feels like being reckless. Her hair's drying out in fluffy curls around her face, and her eyeliner is probably hopelessly smudged, but she's warm and dry, feeling loose-limbed and easy. 

"And that's how I wound up accidentally pouring an entire protein shake on my head," she finishes, "I can't believe you didn't see it, it made such a mess in the kitchen. I had to shower for like half an hour to get it all out of my hair. That's the last time I ever let Simmons put chia seeds in my drinks, even if they're a superfood." Coulson's laughing soundlessly, sitting back in his chair. His sleeves are rolled up and he's had a few looks directed at the prosthetic, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Only you," he says, "Daisy, come on. An  _entire_ shake?"

"The whole thing! This is why eating healthy is overrated," she says darkly, shoves another chip in her mouth. They've eaten two surprisingly un-terrible hot dogs each, a bag of pretzels and most of a packet of potato chips, and the bar is more crowded, people coming in and shaking the rain off their coats. Daisy feels overheated, flushed, and without really thinking about it she unbuttons her chambray shirt, strips down to her black cotton singlet. Coulson glances at her, looks away, and she idly swirls her glass, vibrates the liquid up into a waterspout, because maybe she wants him to look back again.

"Hmmm," Coulson says, swallows the last of his whisky, gives her a considered look. "Are you sure you should be doing that here?"

"Nobody's looking," she points out, and he frowns.

"No, I meant-"

"Oh, do I have it  _under control_? Because I'm drunk? Yeah, Phil, don't  _worry_ , it's fine." He shrugs, and she smiles at him, teasing. "You want to know something cool?" she asks, leaning in across the table, and Coulson swallows again, raises his eyebrows. "I caused an avalanche. In Afterlife."

"An avalanche, huh," he murmurs, and his eyes flick to her cleavage so fast Daisy almost thinks she's missed it. Coulson's  _loose_ , his inhibitions lowered, and Daisy knows what it feels like. It feels good.

"Yeah," she says softly, "that's right. But look, I've got it totally under control, do you trust me?" She reaches out to where he's got his right arm resting on the table, turns his hand palm-up, looks questioningly at him. He nods, and she draws a spiral of vibration lightly down the inside of his forearm, skimming her fingertips over his skin but not touching. Coulson shivers, and his fingers twitch, draw in. He lets out a breath she's not sure he knew he was holding. "See?" she says, placing two fingers at the pulse point of his wrist, dragging her fingers back up the inside of his arm. "Total control."

"Yeah," Coulson breathes, "okay," and Daisy smirks, throws back the rest of her drink.

"I think the rain's easing off a bit," she says, "we should probably go."

 

The rain hasn't really let up; it's not quite as heavy as when they broke down, but it's still coming down steady enough that within fifteen minutes Daisy's hair is in wet tendrils, pasted to her cheeks. It's not so bad. It feels nice, cool after the stuffy heat of the bar, and she turns her face to the sky, knocks her shoulder against Coulson's, weaves just a little more than is necessary so she can lean in against him. He steadies her with a hand to her lower back, leaves it there for longer than she expects, and then slides his fingers up her spine, slings his arm lightly around her shoulder.

"You alright, Agent?" he asks, and yeah, yes, of course she's alright. She can feel Coulson's warmth radiating down her side. He's basically got his arm around her. She's  _great_.

"Sorry I went on an unauthorized mission to find Lincoln and then he stole our car and you had to leave an important meeting and we broke down and your suit got ruined," she tells him again, because she really is sorry. She'd probably do it again, but she's still sorry about it.

"It's okay, really," he says, squeezes her shoulder a little. "I could have been stuck in a meeting full of White House bureaucrats all day, and instead I got to take a road trip and get drunk in a seedy bar with you. That has its perks."

"Yeah?" Daisy asks, leans in more, puts her arm tentatively around his waist. If he were wearing jeans, she thinks, she could slip her fingers into his back pocket right now. _Whisky_. It's _great_.

"Yeah," Coulson says, and his voice hitches a little. "Pity there was no karaoke machine, though. I don't know if you've heard, but I kill at that."

"Oh  _no_ ," Daisy laughs, "Phil, from what I've heard, that's the opposite of what you do." She slides her fingers up under his suit jacket, presses them against the damp cotton of his shirt just above his belt. "Hunter says you hog the mike," she confides, and Coulson makes an outraged noise.

"Oh, like he can talk," he scoffs. "Never let him get within ten feet of a karaoke mike, it's always 'Angel' by Robbie Williams. _Always_. And if he's drunk enough, he starts crying halfway through. It's a sight, let me tell you." Daisy cracks up, clutches at Coulson, wipes her eyes with her free hand.

"Seriously?" she asks, still giggling, and tugs at his shirt just enough to get it untucked, runs her fingers underneath, brushes them against the bare skin of his back. Coulson's breath stutters. This is so unprofessional, she thinks, she should-  _stop_ , but god, touching him is incredible.

"What would  _you_ go for, then?" he asks, his voice husky, and Daisy takes a deep breath.

"I don't give a damn 'bout my reputation," she belts out into the night, because they're drunk and it's raining and it's seriously, seriously the middle of nowhere. Coulson laughs appreciatively, joins in.

"God," he says. "That takes me back. I played that album one time then went out and bought eyeliner immediately."

"Really?" Daisy asks, curious. "Were you a little punk kid in the eighties, Phil?"

"Oh, you have no idea," he tells her. No, she doesn't, but god does she want to know, because the idea of baby Phil Coulson in eyeliner and ripped tartan is ridiculously hot.

"Well, what's your karaoke mainstay, huh?" she says, slips her fingers down a little, presses them in under his belt. Coulson takes a deep breath of his own, clears his throat.

"Now I've had the time of my life," he sings, and Daisy giggles, covers her face, listens to him continue. He gives her an expectant look, and she rolls her eyes, keeps it going.

"Cause I've had the time of my life and I owe it all to you," she finishes. "I hope you're not expecting dance moves, Phil."

"Oh god," he says, "Daisy, I-" He stops, looks at her, moves his hand from her shoulder to cup her face. "Daisy, I just-" And then Coulson's  _kissing her_ , his lips cold from the rain and tasting of whisky. He's kissing her and pulling her in close, his hand sliding from her cheek to cradle the back of her head, and they're still being rained on but Daisy doesn't care, she doesn't care at all, because she's got both hands sliding up inside his suit jacket now, pulling his shirt untucked, pressing her fingers against his ribs. They're both getting soaked. Phil has his fingers in her hair.

"Phil," she moans, " _Phil_ , god," pushes up against him, kisses raindrops off his cheek and his jaw and his throat.

"You, your  _hands_ , Daisy," he gets out.

"I know," she breathes, "I know, so unprofessional, but Phil, do you know how  _hard_ it is not to just  _touch you all of the time_?"

"Yes," he says, simply, kisses her again. The rain's getting heavier again, Daisy thinks dimly.

"Tell me we're close to the car," she murmurs against his lips, and he laughs. 

"I think we're nearly there," he says, and they make a dash for it.

 

"Back seat," Daisy says when they reach the SUV, "Phil, trust me on this,  _back seat_."

"Yeah," he agrees, and somehow they get inside even though they keep pausing for kisses, getting tangled up in each other. Daisy climbs into his lap, peels off his jacket, throws it into the front seat. His shirt's wet again, and this time she lets her gaze linger as she unbuttons it and strips it off.

"You're wearing too many clothes," Coulson tells her, pulls off her parka and shirt, pauses when he reaches her singlet. Her hair is dripping cold water all over them. She's never cared less.

"Yeah," she says, "yeah, Coulson, please, _please_." He smirks, tugs it off, lets his hand drift up over her bare skin and leans in to brush kisses down her throat and across her shoulder.

"Daisy," he says softly and with something like wonder in his voice. "Daisy, god."

"I've got to get out of these jeans," she says, "they're soaked, it's terrible," and slides sideways out of his lap, struggles for a moment until her legs are bare. "That's better," she says with relief, straddles him again and grinds down, and Coulson makes a strangled noise. "Hey Phil," she breathes into his ear, licks a long stroke down his neck. "What were you saying about me ruining the upholstery with how wet I am?"

"You are  _filthy_ ," Coulson gets out, but he's got his hand between her legs now, pressing his fingers up against her through the cotton of her underwear. " _And_ you're soaking wet."

"Well, I mean," she says, gasps, catches her breath. "I don't know if you've noticed, but it's raining pretty hard."

"Hmm," Coulson says, pushes her underwear aside, grazes his fingers lightly over her clit. He leans forward, kisses the curve of her breasts, gets one nipple between his teeth and nips through the lace of her bra. Daisy moans, grinds into his hand, and he rubs a little harder, dips his fingers down to push into her for a moment. Daisy's eyes flutter closed and then open again.

"I think," she says between breaths, "Phil, I think you need to fuck me."

"In the back seat of a SHIELD SUV?" he asks, still touching her teasingly lightly, and she fumbles with his buckle, gets his pants undone. 

"Hey," she protests, "I have great memories of back seats of SHIELD SUVs, thanks,  _AC_."

"Point," Coulson agrees, pulls his hand away and sucks his fingers into his mouth, and that's so unbelievably hot that Daisy leans in, kisses him around his fingers, tastes herself on his lips. Then she's shifting her weight, slowly sliding down on him, and fuck,  _fuck_ , Coulson feels so good inside her. " _Oh_ ," he says, his pupils dilating, and Daisy rolls her hips just a little, watches him bite his lip.

"You feel incredible," she tells him, "Phil, you,  _fuck_ , that's good," and he grabs her hips, digs his fingers in. The car is steamed up; it smells like rain and sex and whisky and Coulson's cologne, and Daisy never wants to leave. "You trust me, right?" she asks, kisses him hard, watches for his reaction.

"You know that I do," Coulson says, his voice rough. Daisy gets a hand down between them, presses vibrations against her clit, and Coulson groans again, pulls in a loud breath. She's fucking him faster now, harder, and he's going to leave bruises on her hips, and the power prickling under her skin feels so  _good_ , everything feels so incredible, Daisy's not sure she's not going to break all the car windows.

"Phil," she says, kisses him again, bites his lower lip. "Phil, I'm gonna-" When she comes she cries out, flushes with heat, rocks into it, and a second orgasm hits her almost immediately. She thinks she hits her head on the car roof. She doesn't care, she doesn't  _care_ , all she wants is Coulson's hands on her and her body against his and his mouth on her throat. Coulson's fingers tighten painfully, and he's coming too, pushing up into her, his breath stuttering in harsh gasps.

"Hey," Daisy says when they've got their breath back. "Hey Coulson. I think the rain has stopped." Coulson just laughs, pulls her down for another kiss. Daisy's never liked the rain so much.


End file.
